First at all: I want to thanks this amazing girl @ImpossibleElement, for the editing!
John kissed him. It was just a brush of lips, but it happened. He can still feel the emotion and the sensation on his mouth. Sherlock sighs at the memory, and looks out the window. London at fall: a few leaves falling to the ground with a sad melody while he remembers.
When they had solved the case in Baskerville, they had decided —John made him— to spend another day in that hotel, since it was Sunday. After a couple of drinks, suddenly they found themselves face to face, approaching; and Sherlock can remember a mischievous light shinning in the other’s oceanic eyes; and before he knew it, John kissed him.
Sherlock silences another delusional feeling for him, now that John is walking down the street as the detective looks on sadly through the window.
He tries to understand the reason why they haven’t talked about the kiss; neither of them is very good with words, but why hasn’t John even mentioned it? He asks himself whether John has forgotten or if he just didn’t want to talk about it. Perhaps Watson wanted to ignore it.
Despite the fact that his deduction skills are excellent, human emotions confuse him and John Watson is far more difficult the any other person.
And now, after two weeks, nothing has changed. Everything passed like leaves falling on the street in a little slow melody; the kind that you can hear only if you’re careful… and Sherlock is able to do so.
John seems to have moved on from the fact, and everything is still the same. The blogger often goes out; like that autumn afternoon when he left the flat so quickly. Sherlock is frustrated, he started playing the violin in the middle of the night, no matter whether he would wake John up. The detective was so tired.
The tension between them often led to meaningless arguments; discussions about John’s blog and the level of romantic prose in those stories instead of his deductive skills, or about difference of opinions, even the stupid ones.
He did, in fact, propose that he could blow Watson up. So, in the end, that situation had been justified. John was so stubborn, but he was still patient, and in case he lost it, he decided to go out with a sigh.
Sherlock walks away from the window and decides to make tea. While he pours the tea into a cup, he sees him and almost swoons.
John stands there, and stares at him with a new hairstyle. He still has tiny hair cuttings on his shoulders, so the detective is sure he had just left the hairdresser.
His hair is pulled back and exposes his handsome face so well, his blue eyes… and he looks so sexy.
The blogger hides a small smile, and with frowning eyebrows he says:
«You aren’t going to say anything? No sarcastic comments?»
Sherlock opens his mouth to reply, but no sound comes out. He is tense with jealousy, because the balance of probability is that John has a date with a girl. With someone who is not him.
A girl he likes very much, and he will want to court at all costs.
He puts the cup down, ready —or sort of— to reply to him when his phone rings. Sherlock fails to know whether he feels grateful or not.
«Lestrade? Mmm…it sounds interesting. Yes, give me an hour and I’ll be there.»
He’s so excited about this one, but when he looks up at John he becomes disappointed.
«Eight or nine case?»
«Seems like an eight, caught my attention, I mean. I suppose you won’t come.»
The blogger looks away.
«I’m sorry, Sherlock. But I have a date this evening.»
It’s six pm, so the detective knows what that means.
«I get it.» He snaps with a piercing tone while he puts his coat on and goes out.
It was so disappointing the case turned out to be fake. A stupid imitation of Jack the Ripper’s return, and Sherlock had been furious with Lestrade for having wasted his time.
But he had stopped.
The moment he looked at his face, he saw everything: a clear discomfort by the fact he had been persuaded to lie for an unknown purpose, and a hint of embarrassment.
And now he’s in a cab, upset and frustratedly tapping his left fingers on his leg, all because of John’s stupid plan. He has calculated everything: the distance from the crime scene to the flat —an hour—, an interesting case to attract the detective’s attention, and the fact that he didn’t come. So he would have time to dine with his pathetic new girl in their house.
He looks at the street through the cab’s window, and holds back the tears of a broken heart. He had been so stupid to think that kiss had meant something; when John had clearly done it just because he was drunk.
He remembers Irene’s texts about John’s supposed feelings for him, and laughs. Even he knows John had been attracted to him, he also knows the blogger had always resisted it. But nothing will happen between them, nothing more than that kiss.
In another circumstance, Sherlock would be proud of his work, but not this time.
He quickly goes up the stairs, his heart heavy with the awareness that John will never want him, and they will never have a relationship like the ones Watson has with those girls.
He opens the door and he is stuck dumb: the table in the living room is adorned with two red, scented candles, a good dinner probably made by John and Mrs. Hudson hands at the centre of it. Instead of the usual mess, there are plates of pasta, a good wine and so much more food.
Has John miscalculated?
The curly-haired man is so confused, and his mouth opens when he sees John Watson in front of him. He had expected to find the blogger upset or annoyed to be interrupted with his new flame, but that’s not what was happening.
He smiles at him, the one he uses when he is comfortable. He is wearing fancy dark clothes as if he were waiting for him, and Sherlock gasps.
«Good evening, Sherlock. Finally! I was worried you wouldn’t be here in time.» His tone is as deep and determined as his blue eyes; despite the tiny bit of anxiousness showing in them, but John controls it and stares at him.
«You mean…» It would be obvious even for Scotland Yard to see, so Sherlock shuts up, but he can’t believe this is real. He sniffs the air to find something, but he doesn’t detect any female fragrance.
John laughs, a sound so sweet to the detective’s ears.
«The great detective is stuck, isn’t he? Let me help you.»
«I’m not stu...» He stops because the blogger approaches him, and takes off the curly-haired man’s coat. Then Sherlock is enveloped by his perfume, a good aftershave; and he is transported to a place he doesn’t know.
John nods for him to take a seat, and Sherlock, as in a dream, obeys.
They eat in silence, and the detective was so nervous he tries to deduce what is happening.
-John is very calm, despite the anxiety in his eyes. This is obvious for how strongly he grips his fork. But he controls it like the soldier he is.
-The dinner is meant for two, and is meant to be romantic.
But why? Why choose this ridiculous, romantic dinner, after that kiss? Because it’s obvious now that he remembers it. The question stings inside his head continuously. He feels a trembling sensation inside his chest and he doesn’t understand what it is. Romance had never been his area.
So he looks at him- He sighs and asks.
«What’s going on?»
The doctor puts his hand on the table, with his palm up and waiting. His blue and intense eyes piercing into Sherlock’s. The detective frowns and does as John wants.
He puts his hand over the other’s, and the blogger tightens the grip and sends many chills up the detective’s neck. Sherlock is looking at him, and Watson looks back with a soft glance now, one just for him.
«The first time we had dinner together, your deduction was correct. Do it again.»
Holmes blinks, he knows John had been attracted to him but he was fighting with himself to believe it. It sounds like a strange request.
His head is spinning. What he had always wanted is right in front of him, but he doesn’t know what to do. What to say. The detective is panicking.
He remembers a similar emotion from when he listened to the chat between Irene and John. Where the blogger basically confirmed he was attracted to him; even despite his constant need to not appear ‘gay’. So when John returned to Baker Street and attempted to talk, Sherlock refused it, part in revenge, but also because of fear.
The detective jumps up his seat. Unable to manage the emotions swirling inside him. He doesn’t even know how to name those feelings, he just knows he is terrified.
He steps back, and without noticing crashes into a wall. He looks at him, searching for answers. Quiet. But he still doesn’t know!
John’s gaze is so calm, as he softly calls his name; but Sherlock interrupts him.
«Why are you flirting with me? You denied it! You always denied being homosexual, so why this?»
He is unmovable. Stuck in fear, so he attacks like a wounded animal. But John, amazing creature that he is, understands.
Even despite the guilt in his eyes, maybe because he put that fear in Holmes; he gets closer to him, in a slow and sensual way. Sherlock feels his throat burn, and his heart beating fast.
Something happened, a tiny indication…someone told him.
His thoughts stops because John is just so close and he puts the hands on the wall framing his waist. His gaze caresses his lips with so much desire that Sherlock just wants to kiss him.
«You thought I had forgotten that kiss? It was a test, like you would have done. I deduced and observed your reaction…»
His voice is so warm and soft, and falls down over the detective’s skin as it grows hot, as do his cheeks.
«You didn’t exactly reply.» His gaze fixes on him, as he tries to ignore the emotions and tries to figure out what else John is hiding.
Why now? and why this?…
Suddenly a name appears in Sherlock’s mind: Irene.
She was the one who texted him, and who understood what was going on between them. She has told him so many times to speak with John about his feelings, because the blogger probably felt the same, she said. So perhaps Irene didn’t only write to him.
His deduction is interrupted by John and his hand under his chin, lifting it so their eyes meet once again.
«I’m not gay, indeed. But it doesn’t count. I’m a person with feelings, Sherlock, and for God’s sake! I know it’s difficult to say. But…» He sighs and for a few moments his determination goes away. Sherlock sees the man with a fear similar to his own, and a feeling burns in his eyes.
«I don’t want to hide anymore, I needed time to understand and accept who i am and i was so sure you wouldn’t have feelings for me. I thought it was impossible.
I thought you weren’t interested in that sort of thing, but I was wrong and…I understand now. At Baskerville I had confirmation, yes; but not just there. I’m an idiot, but I’m not stupid, Sherlock. With you, I just excel at observation and I saw the look in your face, your feelings, but I didn’t want to admit it. I saw how amazing you are, even if you hide yourself behind that ‘high-functioning sociopath’ mask. But you are not. God, you are really not.» His gaze is so tender now, and Sherlock is not able to look away, because he loves to see how much he has underestimated John’s feelings, and dismissed them as just attraction. Despite the fact that he isn’t an expert on sentiment, he can see this is so much more.
«But you pushed away from...»
«I know you understand. I see it in your eyes, my clever man- He interrupts him with a smile. -So, yes: Irene texted me, and yes: I knew she was alive when I told you she was in America.
Anyway, a few months ago she texted me; Initially, I thought it was a joke, but she went on and when I replied she..told me everything. She said we had not finished our chat, and sent me a screenshot of your conversation. She enjoyed it, I think, and when I asked her why, she said she was repaying a debt; to you, I presume. And I’m so sorry.»
Sherlock tries to reply, to tell him he doesn’t need to be sorry, but John stops him with a finger over his mouth.
«Shut up. Just…let me speak.» He holds his face and brushes his cheekbones, they breathe the same air and the blogger’s glance is so bright when he says:
«I'm sorry i wasted time with you because i didn't admit what i feels, and who I am... but now here we are, just you and me; the detective that said girlfriends isn't his area and the man who doesn't care about it because it's quiet fine by the way.» He pause for a moment and looks at him.
«You want to know what I deduce about you, Sherlock?» Maybe it’s the whisper, full of love, or maybe it’s the desire pressing inside his chest, because the detective doesn’t reply, and just leans forward and kisses him.
He holds on to him, with all the passion he feels, and John, oh, John! he groans and touches him. Presses him to the wall. He scratches at his clothes as if he wanted to tear them from his figure.
They separate from the kiss to breathe, and now the blogger puts his lips where Sherlock always knew he had wanted to kiss.
John kisses and greedily sucks at his neck, with so much possession and love that Sherlock is trembling against the wall. Suddenly, the kiss grows more soft, and then he says words as lullabies against his skin. Desperate as a man who has waited so long to say those things, and happy that he can finally word them.
A love song just for him, and Sherlock replies immediately.
«I love you too, John.»
They kiss again and step away from the wall.
You can imagine what comes next: moans, touches and little giggles inside Sherlock’s bedroom. In Baker Street.
Free to show theirselves; and free to love each other, as it should be.